


swallow all my poison, 'cause I've already taken all your daggers

by orphan_account



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, It refused to leave me alone until I finished it, even when i stopped writing it was always on my mnd, this damn fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:57:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3214997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Lilita changed Carmilla's life and one time Carmilla saved hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	swallow all my poison, 'cause I've already taken all your daggers

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a fic about Lilita and the way she loved Carmilla. It's something I constantly think about and I'm pretty sure my girlfriend has heard my theory at least three times. So, that being said, it's dedicated to her because she's way too patient with me and my love for one Lilita Morgan.
> 
> Title from _Four Things_ by The Romanovs.

**one**

 

When you see her, your breath is stolen for a moment. She glitters in radiant greens, her dark hair twisted into an elegantly loose chignon, mirroring her mother who is draped in midnight blue.

They make quite the pair, mother and daughter, both capturing more of your attention than you’d care to admit, both making your mouth water with the need to take them, to defile their reputations and make them yours. You know well that the mother will resist, that she will fight and fight and want to live. It is what makes it interesting for you, what keeps you from growing bored of your games.

The girl, however, the girl is different. As tantalising as her mother is, there is something that draws you to her, something that makes you want to do more than simply play with her. You cannot say what it is, cannot define that which escapes definition, but you know that she is the reason, the only one who evokes this feeling within you amidst the masses of this pathetic gathering.

You do not dwell on it, though, not when there is so much to see, to smell, to taste. You hate the banality of human gatherings compared to those of your kind, hate the repetitive predictability, but there is something about the sensory experience that keeps you coming back for more with every invitation that makes its way into your hands.

The night moves slowly for you, time trudging on slower than you are accustomed to. You do not mind, your eyes on the girl in green as she flirts and giggles her way through suitor after suitor. Even from your place in the shadows you can see how much she hates it, how much she longs for something other than this false affection from those who would have only her money or her body.

You yourself want her, want everything that you see before you and everything that you do not. Lust is not a new sensation, is not something that you have ever controlled before. What you feel when you look at her, however, it is more, so much more than that, and you pause just long enough to examine it before moving into her sphere, her space.

Her eyes light up as they fall on you and you smirk, your body automatically shifting so that your movements seduce her, pull her in. She cannot resist you just as you cannot give her up. It intrigues you but you cast the thought aside, contenting yourself with brushed skin and whispered words of scandal

She is by no means innocent – you can smell the desire and the need for the female body roiling through her, feeding into the illusion she has created – but her blushing cheeks speak volumes as you continue. She leans closer with each word, her heart beating faster and faster as you speak.

Even before you act, you know that she has submitted to you, that she has already given herself over to your care. It thrills you to learn this, makes you want to see how far you can go before she breaks beneath you, but you hold yourself back.

This is neither the time nor the place for such deeds. You allow yourself the indulgence of her company now but you will savour her in time, perhaps after you find another more suitable to your current purpose, when you can take and take and take.

You do not move from her side though. There is something that holds you there, forces you to remain at her side throughout the night. You would say that is her blood but you know better. You are not your children, not your creations. You do not need the substance to live, to survive. You take it because you can, because you have the power and you will be damned before you stop using it for your own amusement.

She is absolutely fascinating to you, breathtakingly beautiful but more than that. She is a glittering prize that you will have soon enough, a girl you will take so much pleasure in breaking, a girl you will revel in as you indulge in her flesh.

You want and you want and you want and you will take and break every part of her soul, make her yours before giving her unto her death and her corruption. You consider turning her, making her yours for an eternity and forever, but you would not ruin such a work of art, not when the world is so cruel to women, to those not preordained by a cruel master to a fate worse than death, a fate that you have fought and conquered.

No, you will condemn her to death’s cold embrace before you allow her to fall prey to anyone other than yourself.

 

…

 

**two**

Anger courses through your veins as you walk through the ruins of the manor, as you hunt he who dared to defile your perfect girl. You cannot say why it affects you so, why you want to rip and tear and kill as much as you do in that moment. It is not a foreign instinct but it is one you usually have under tight control.

Now, now that control is gone, evaporated into the night the moment the girl, Mircalla Mircalla Mircalla, the wind whispers you, the moment she ran away, dress in tatters, bloody, wild. In its place is only anger, bubbling beneath the surface like a cauldron ready to overflow with your bloodlust as you hunt, seek your prey in what used to be the Karnstein manor.

Revolt and revolution has rendered it a shell of its former glory, human hands doing in mere hours what nature takes its time to accomplish. You do not care for the sloppy work, the wanton destruction created with a lack of grace. You yourself are a destroyer, an agent of chaos with the sole desire to see the world fall into ruin, but you despise the ways in which the rabble brings this about.

A sound to your right and you stop, turn. There she is, black eyes staring out at you as she holds her meal closer, his body decimated beyond recognition, and it is all you can do to stand there when what you really want is to approach her, take her into your arms. You do not move, you cannot.

She is too feral, too wild in this state. She is destruction and chaos and everything you are at your core and you love it, love her. You will teach her later to channel herself into elegance, seduction, to win the hearts of men and women alike before tearing them apart one by one. Now, though…now you simply let her be, allow her this period of abandon. She has earned it for all that she has suffered in so short a time.

Eventually, you sink to your knees before her, the state of your dress less important than winning this beautiful creature over. She is to be yours now, your hand forced by fate and an inability to deny your basest of desires. She is to be at your side, in your bed. You do not care what she is to be, only that you own her.

She seems to sense this, to recognise your dominion. She drops the body, not caring as she surges towards you, fangs bared. You can easily slap her away but you do not, grabbing her wrist, pulling her closer as you finally taste those blood stained lips.

You want and you want and you want everything that she is, everything that she can be. There is nothing that she has, nothing that she is that you do not want and as you press your hand against her chest, rip off the top of her dress, the only thing you can think is that she is glorious like this.

Your perfect girl, your prized jewel, you dub her in your mind as you kiss her. You vow to value her more than all but yourself in that moment, seal it with your tongue as you enter her mouth.

She complies so willingly, so eagerly as she attempts to get closer to you. In return you oblige her whims, pressing your body tightly against hers as you lower her to the ground, your clothes coming off with the rest of hers.

Her skin is soft, perfect. You want to touch every part of her, to taste every inch of her flesh. There is nothing and no one who can pry you away from her now that you have tasted her. There is no part of her that you are willing to give up.

She arches closer into you, presses her body against yours as she begs silently for more. This is lust, pure carnal desire coming to the fore as you touch her. The more contact you have, the more you cannot resist and you find yourself licking your lips as you allow her to come over and over again.

When you are done, you kiss her hair, wrap her up in your arms as you cradle her right there on the ground. You should not be here, should have taken her in a bed somewhere rich, lush with indulgence, but this seems more fitting, more akin to what you once were and what she is now.

Yours, you think as you hold her close. She is yours and she always will be. There is no doubt of that and you will make sure that it stays that way.

 

…

 

**three**

Mircalla is yours. You know this, accept this as a truth that will never cease to be. You have ensured your presence in her mind, her heart, her soul. She is yours completely, wholly.

You make this known. You make it clear to your other progeny that this girl, this glittering diamond in your grasp, is yours and no one else’s. You are the only one allowed to touch her, to hurt and to heal as you wish. She is exempted from all that you do to them, her innocence, her naiveté crushed at your pace, at your hand.

As you watch her struggle, the knowledge that she would betray you so, that she would attempt to leave you like this, hurts, pains you more than you have felt in a long time, pains you more than you wish it to.

“Mama,” she whispers as you approach. “Please, Mama…”

She is open, naked to you as you watch her. She wants and she wants and she wants, your own desires mirroring hers in ways that you never wanted them to. You want to possess her, to keep her as your own where she wants freedom, to possess something, someone of her own, to pour herself into another as you have done to her.

Long ago, you would have killed her, would have erased her from this existence, but here and now, here and now you cannot. You have poured yourself into her, have given yourself over to the feelings she invokes in you.

It fascinates you, the way she has buried herself into your heart, your soul. You would bow to her, bow to everything that she is, if you bowed to anyone. As it is, you do not and you will not.

It is enough that you do not kill her, that this is her punishment for her betrayal. She will spend her eternity in that box, never to be released unless it is by your own hand. You know yourself enough to know that the latter is a possibility, that you may indulge in your weakness in the future should you feel so inclined.

“Softly,” you whisper, walking up to where she is held. “Treat her softly, gently.”

She looks up then, her eyes begging, pleading. You allow yourself to run your fingers through her hair, to feel her skin one more time. It makes you wonder if you will give in just to feel this way again sooner or later.

“You knew the rules, my darling. You broke them.”

“I love her.”

You hear the desperation in her voice, the need. She wants to believe that the girl loved her back, that she was not alone in this feeling, but you know better. Humans are so fickle in their emotions, so weak. You still remember the way she called her a monster, the ease with which her infatuation turned to hatred.

She does not know this, does not yet recognise that humans cannot love the way you do, with the permanence with which you feel. She thinks they are the same, that they will not betray her, but she does not know, does not realise how foolish this notion really is.

You would teach her, but this is a lesson she must learn herself, an experience she must suffer by her own hand. You wish she had not forced you into this but she has and you cannot go back, not now.

“I love you,” you say and you kiss her, slowly, allow your longing to linger on her lips. “She could not love you as I do, as I always will.”

You step back then, watch as your other children lower her into the coffin. She struggles, tries to get out, but she cannot. There are too many of them, too many of her lesser siblings than she can fight off in her weakened state.

You know that you should feel some sort of remorse but you cannot allow yourself to show any weakness. Not here. Not now. They must not know, must not see exactly how precious she is to you.

There are other ways, other means of ensuring her compliance but in the end you choose to drown her. You remember all too well the Flood, the washing away of those unworthy of this plane. It seems fitting that you should wash away her sins in a similar manner, too fitting.

You smile, allow those looking to think that you take pleasure in this but you do not. How can you when you are dooming your precious girl to this fate?

Instead, you feel empty as you walk away, devoid of emotion as you make your way out of that tunnel. Time will pass, will make you its slave once more, before you can bring yourself to release her. You are no longer human but you remember and you mourn, not for yourself but for the girl she used to be, the girl she no longer is.

 

..

 

**four**

 

When you visit her tomb in 1951, you find it disturbed, open. The mausoleum itself stands but the ground above her coffin is gone, destroyed.

You know now that she is free, that she is out there somewhere doing as she wishes with little regard for anything else. For a moment you want to break her, destroy her in every possible way that you can.

You do not do this. Instead, you find her, watch her as she blooms. You cannot quite bring yourself to take it away from her and so you leave her be, watch over her as she travels through Reykjavik, Warsaw, London, Berlin, Moscow, Tokyo, Madrid.

She avoids Austria, avoids Styria, but you do not press her. In time, she will return, will come back to you of her own free will. You are content to wait, to witness as she grows, becomes more beautiful as time passes.

You want her perfect, yours forevermore. You can let her have this, allow her to linger in nostalgia until you have need of her. She is still a child in many ways and she needs this, needs to grow before you can finish grooming her for what she is meant to be.

It is only in 1953 that you go to her. The sacrifice is nearing and you want her with you, want her close though you still refuse to allow her the knowledge of what you do. She must not know until she has proven herself, until the potential within her starts to bear the fruit you wish to see.

You find her in Notre Dame, her knees bent at the pew closest to the altar. You recognise the stance, know that she is not really praying. You know the God of this place to be real as does she, but she no longer has faith in him as she once did. You refused to take it from her, delighted in the ways you could corrupt that faith, turn it against her, and yet she has lost it all the same.

“Mother,” she says without turning to you.

“Chèrie.”

“How did you know?”

“Do you really wish to know that? Isn’t it enough that I know?”

She turns then, allows herself to fall into your arms as you welcome her back. You know that she does not want this, that she would rather rebel and risk her freedom once more than come back to you but you do not care. This feels so right and all you want to do is hold on to her for as long as you can.

She is yours and you will not surrender her to the world at large. You will keep her safe, keep her from harm for as long as you can.

As you hold her, you cannot help but notice that she is still soft, pliable in the best and worst of ways. You can still mould her, can still turn her to your purposes. Only, this time you will have a lighter touch, a more subtle method. You will taint her with your darkness in the quietest of ways while still maintaining your power over her.

She may rebel, fight as much as she wishes, but in the end she will always be yours. There is no escape from you. You will give her none and she will not find any. You will ensure this as surely as you keep the sacrifice going.

“Come back to me, my darling.”

“And my punishment?”

“It’s over.”

You do not lie. Never again will you sentence her back to that box. Her memories of it will be enough, will be a torment worse than anything you could do to her. You take some pleasure in that even as you lure her back to your side.

“Come back, love. You have a brother now, a little one who needs to learn our ways. He needs someone to guide him, to show him what he must do and teach him what he must know.”

She looks at you then, as naked and vulnerable as that night decades ago when you could no longer bear to see her. It haunts you how tired she looks, how much older she looks than the eighteen years of life she had had before she died.

“What if I refuse?”

“Exile. You will no longer be under my protection.”

“Maman…”

She trails off, unable to say anything in response. She knows well what your protection has done, from whom and what it has saved her. She wants to be free but at heart she is as selfish a creature as you are.

When you offer your hand, she does not hesitate to take it.

 

…

 

**one**

 

Death is as boring as you believe it is. There is nothing but darkness, endless darkness surrounding you as you drown in it. You are of it and apart at the same time, existing in an endless loop of existential chaos until he comes to you.

You remember the Morningstar well, remember encounters and conversations from a past unforgotten. You are both older now, wiser, after millennia of existing in defiance of a God you cannot, will not, serve.

He tells you that it is not yet your time but you do not need the reminder. You know this, have the power to go back when you so choose. Only, you wait for her to return to the land of the living. You will not go back until she does.

There, it only takes a matter of days but here, here it feels like an eternity. You wait and you wait and you wait until you feel her escape death once more. Long ago, you tied yourself to her and now you find yourself using that bond to bring yourself back to that plane of existence.

You have other means of doing so but this is the easiest, the most desirable method. You know that she can feel it, that she knows. You want her to know, to fear your return as much as she feels shame for even hoping for it.

She struggles with it, struggles with the need for you that will follow her through time and space. You have both allowed it to grow, to fester within her heart and soul until it has become rooted, as immortal as she is.

You watch her from afar just as you did in 1951, as you did in 1698 when you first felt the stirrings of desire for her. You ensure her safety even as you cultivate the darkness beneath Silas, beneath Styria. There are other creatures, other beings who are more fearsome than the once dormant Lophiiformes. Its presence kept them at bay but now, now you turn them to your cause, your need for chaos and destruction wherever you go.

You care not for the way the world moves on, the way modern technology makes it so much easier to spread your taint. You prefer to get your hands dirty even as you play your games from the shadows, prefer to tear the world down brick by brick until there is nothing left but war and death.

Eras have passed and you have been called by many names but always, always destruction has followed in your wake. Man has always held the dark within him and this is what you play with, what you nurture and bring out in grotesque exhibition.

There is little that escapes your touch, little that you will not capture and corrupt. She is not exempt from this but you leave her for a while, conduct your games as if she has left your thoughts completely.

Only, she has not and you know that there will come a time when you will have to go back, when you will face her once more. When that time comes, you will be weak, will succumb to it as you nearly did so many years ago. Now, though, now you will continue with what you do best.

Time passes, weeks, months, years. Before you know it, a decade has come and gone and you feel the need to return to Styria, to your old stomping grounds. Eastern Europe has always had its charms and you cannot deny that you feel drawn to it more than any other place.

It has not changed, not really. The wilds of Austria remain as they are, untouched by humanity and its oily grasp. This is the only place you will not permit it to touch, to corrupt. After all, it is yours. It is hers.

When you traverse the land, you can taste her in the very air. You know that she has not left, that the girl who stole her away from you resides with her as they attempt to navigate a doomed love.

Unless she draws the girl into the darkness around her, she will never taste immortality, will never stay with her as you are able to do. You wish for her happiness but this girl, this wretched creature, she is unfit for your glittering girl.

When you come across her, she is surprised. She does not expect you to be here, to come back when you are no longer tied to Sials, but you have and you take pleasure in the knowledge that you can still shock her.

She takes a step forward, retreats as soon as she does. There is reluctance and hesitation written in her expression. You know she will not make the first move and so you move forward, press your body against hers until you share the same air.

“Hello, Mircalla. I’ve missed you.”


End file.
